“Some people are happy calling me an artist, others a Conceptual or post-Conceptual artist, others say sculptor, and others use a string of modifiers. Someone suggested once that I was simply performing these categories, which I like.”

“I’m a Zimbabwean and I should show in my paintings where I’m from. In our culture, when you have a dream about dogs, cows, or whatnot, it means an evil spirit is coming to attack.”

“The idea of misunderstanding is very much part of our time. In our firm, we are from all these different backgrounds, working in this Babylonian city, so we are also interested in process and the unintentional things emerging from that. It acknowledges our contemporary chaos.”

“Hippias Minor is such a handy introduction to Socrates as a personality, to this method of argumentation, to the culture of Athens where you have all these hot-shot foreign speakers like Hippias coming in and making the intellectual fermentation even stronger.”

“People discouraged me when I sang as a child, said, ‘You can’t carry a tune in a bucket.’ People still say that. Well, fuck it. I haven’t been trying to carry a tune. I’ve been essaying, expressing my interests in abstract terms, devil take the hindmost.”

“The novel is a race, and I can see the finish line from the first sentence: it’s an intuition that magnetizes the entire text. The closer I get to the goal, the faster I want to go.”

“Stephen and I went drinking and eating one night from Canal Street to Esplanade (the length of the French quarter). We spent hours talking about New Orleans and art, both of which I love.”

An equation for Fia Backström. In 2005, the artist opened lesser new york in her Williamsburg loft, which was a response to Greater New York (2005) but it was lesser…

Homebody, the title of Mike Goodlett’s first New York solo exhibition, playfully refers to his life of relative seclusion in rural Kentucky.

This fall, Max Galyon, at my invitation, mounted an exhibition of his paintings and sculptures in my studio in Sunset Park, Brooklyn. The show was intended to create a setting for spontaneous conversations between artists outside of any commercial context, and was open to the public on certain days.

“I am merely opening a dossier,” says Roland Barthes, again and again, throughout his three final seminars in Paris in the late seventies, each course posthumously converted to a book, each book divided into annotated weekly lectures, subsectioned into brief semi-independent scholia. More than lecture notes but short of sustained essay, each book is agile, esoteric, and unsynthesized, pivoting continually to consult yet another tangential text or discipline.

My father lived for most of his twenties, held a steady job and a woman. / That’s what I told the teacher when she asked me what my father did.

4 June 2010, Edinburgh. The brightness of the morning. Sky flat. No clouds. When he came into her room with coffee she was already awake. 

From the train I could look out onto the infinite blue of the sea. I was still exhausted, wakeful from the overnight transatlantic flight to Rome, but looking out at the sea, that Mediterranean sea that was so infinite and so blue, made me forget it all, even myself. I don’t know why.

I don’t remember exactly when I wrote “George / Washington.”

I scrape the snow or shovel the driveway before I go / casual flip of car on lawn spats abut fender’s sis

If you don’t know Harry Bertoia’s work, you should know that he was somewhat of a polymath.

The newly published journals match and exceed all preexisting Wieners publications. 

It’s Corey Haim here—‘80s heartthrob, teen idol, and tragic girlish boy next door. What’s up, Schmerm?

Hovering far below any conceivable radar, Fred Dewey’s The School of Public Life ought to be the cause of more than some disturbance.

A musical that argues against itself, posing more questions than it could ever attempt to answer.

A 1971 photograph by Jan van Raay shows artist Cliff Joseph leading a group of artist-activists—members of the Black Emergency Cultural Coalition (BECC)—in the dead of winter protesting the Whitney Museum’s controversial exhibition Contemporary Black Artists in America (months before its opening on April 7, 1971).

 The decades-spanning volume makes it clear that for Jones the job of the poet is to “preside” as Aimé Césaire writes, over the “experience as a whole.”